Gacela of the Dead Child
Each afternoon in Granada,
each afternoon, a child dies.
Each afternoon the water sits down
and chats with its companions.
The dead wear mossy wings.
The cloudy wind and the clear wind
are two pheasants in flight through the towers,
and the day is a wounded boy.
Not a flicker of lark was left in the air
when I met you in the caverns of wine.
Not the crumb of a cloud was left in the ground
when you were drowned in the river.
A giant of water fell down over the hills,
and the valley was tumbling with lilies and dogs.
In my hands' violet shadow, your body,
dead on the bank, was an angel of coldness.
Poem by
Federico García Lorca
Biography |
Poems
| Best Poems | Short Poems
| Quotes
|
Email Poem |
More Poems by Federico García Lorca
Comments, Analysis, and Meaning on Gacela of the Dead Child
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Gacela of the Dead Child here.
Commenting turned off, sorry.